Last night, my wife and I were woken up by the sound of crashing and banging against our back door. Our apartment is on the second floor, but there’s a fire escape that connects to our balcony. We were convinced someone was trying to break—or had already broken—into our home.
My wife got her Glock out of the gun safe and went out into the living room. She was wearing only her robe. Meanwhile, I cowered in the bedroom—completely naked because it’s summertime—with the dogs. My hand was firmly gripping my phone, ready to call 9-1-1.
First, there was only silence and the heavy beating of my heart while my wife looked around outside our bedroom. I could hear her careful footfalls in the quiet.
Then, “Goddamn it, cat!”
I made sure it was safe to come out. I walked into the living room and finally saw the source of the commotion: our cat, Arya, had gotten into an argument with a neighborhood cat through the backdoor. The crashing and pounding was the two of them trying to attack each other through the glass.
In hindsight, we shouldn’t have been so surprised that the neighborhood cat had come to our back door. For the past several nights, we’ve been feeding him whenever we see him at night. He was abandoned by a previous tenant of our complex, and was beginning to grow thin and feral. I started calling him “Winston.” Eventually, once we’ve managed to secure his trust, we’ll put him in a carrier and take him to the Humane Society.
I think he came to our back door because we hadn’t fed him that night. My wife gave him some food, and he tucked right in. He even tried coming in the house.
Arya was so upset we had to lock her in the bedroom with us and the dogs to calm her down. We normally let her wander the apartment all night. She likes exploring in the darkness.
It was difficult trying to fall back asleep. But we were laughing pretty hard. Adrenaline is weird.
This is the menace in question. She’s cute, and I love her. But I don’t appreciate her coke-fueled rampages when we’re trying to sleep.